Frank Fragment Two
by ucferrarisgirl
Summary: Frank needs his team to help him..or doesn't he?


FRANK: UC Fragments  
  
In this Fragment, Frank needs his team to rescue him, instead of him doing the rescuing.  
  
Or does he?  
  
Timeline: after "Zero Option"  
  
**********  
  
The figure dangled on the thin nylon rope extruding from the bottom of the chopper. The figure twisted in circles as the chopper flew three hundred feet over the Sonoran Desert. The Colorado River was sparkling in the distance.  
  
"Cut the line, now!" a male voice commanded. The dangling, twisting figure could hear their voices quite clearly, as the two men's voices were amplified through the speaker hastily attached to the bottom of the chopper. It had been placed there so that an exquisite pain would be felt by the figure: that of knowing exactly what time he died.  
  
"Dammit! We're still over the desert. You know we can't have a body to find!" a second male voice said.  
  
"The coyotes and vultures will take care of the body! Now, cut!" the first voice said.  
  
"Dammit, again! Will you listen to reason? DNA analysis is so sophisticated just a bone fragment could link us to this hit. You know who we're hitting. And you know they won't stop until they've recovered his body. I'll cut the line when we're over the river," the second male voice commanded.  
  
'Fine. Just make sure you cut the line," the first male voice said.  
  
Donovan considered his options. In the past months, he'd had to consider his options several times. He was not in a good position dangling three hundred feet above the Sonoran Desert. He had to admit the Colorado River looked good after being dragged through the air, high above the desert from the border town of Nogales.  
  
Then again, he'd not be alive for very long once he hit the river. Dropping three hundred feet into the river was sure to kill him. The Colorado River was raging. He reflected that was why his killers had chosen to drop him from three hundred feet in the air into the Colorado River: the raging whitewater would get rid of his body, never to be found.  
  
Frank knew his team would be frantic. This would be the second time they'd lost their leader. John Keller had been a good man, an excellent leader. He'd had different traits that the team had depended upon. The team had liked Keller; some had even loved him. The team, under Frank, had resolved some tricky cases. He'd learned their idiosyncrasies, their moods. He knew his own approach to the job mystified them. They were used to Keller leading them, used to Keller's way of handling things.  
  
Frank heard a second chopper bearing fast and hard behind him. A voice spoke through a megaphone.  
  
"Border Patrol! Direct the chopper where we tell you!"  
  
Frank could hear the two men's response through the speaker the two killers had kindly installed for him, and their words weren't nice.  
  
A twisting Frank was surprised to hear a shot ring out over the noise of two chopper's blades. He heard a grunt from the speaker and figured one of the two had been shot. He rather hoped the first man had been shot. The second man would be easier to control, once his buddy was out of the way.  
  
"Lower the rope!" Frank heard the voice through the megaphone. Frank felt the chopper lurching, but he felt, rather than saw, the rope being lowered. He felt himself being lowered towards the desert floor and only hoped his body would not be too badly broken upon impact.  
  
The chopper from which Frank was dangling suddenly lost altitude. His stomach turned because the rope was still being lowered and the chopper was losing altitude, causing him to feel nauseous.  
  
Frank looked down. A bad idea but he needed some idea as to how close he was to the desert floor. Much to his surprise, dangling from the rope he wasn't more than a hundred feet above the desert floor, and the Colorado River was rapidly approaching.  
  
Frank readied himself to let go once the chopper was over the Colorado River. He had a good eye--a great eye, that once shot a man through his gun wrist--but he hoped his eye was good enough to judge his jump correctly. If not, he'd be landing on the desert floor, a smushed Frank Donovan.  
  
He didn't like that option, but he had to consider it.  
  
As he twisted in the air, the Colorado River looming larger, the chopper suddenly lost more altitude. He heard the engine falter. He was twisting faster now, spinning around like a Donovan top. The world was a blur. There was no way he'd be able to accurately judge when he'd be able to jump--and enter the river instead of plopping down on the desert floor.  
  
Crazily, he remembered a movie from sometime back. He couldn't remember the name but it was a mountain climbing movie. The one where the opening scene has a family of mountain climbers on the side of a mountain. They're in trouble, and the father cuts himself loose, falling, falling towards the ground, his children stuck to the side of the mountain, watching in horror, yet knowing that it was the only way to save them: either they all died, or one died. They knew their dad had chosen what he considered to be the lesser of two bad options.  
  
This is what Frank had to consider. The lesser of two bad options. Did he want to choose dying in the cool, delicious Colorado River (and he had to admit for the second time that the river looked very inviting and in particular, would soothe his parched throat and skin)? Or would he be content with a death by hurtling towards the ground?  
  
He remembered reading that people who fell to their deaths thought the experience almost a transcendental one. Those people who survived jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge told doctors that the world passed in slow motion, and you felt elation. You felt no fear, just elation.  
  
Frank figured it was that way to reduce the pain the impact of your body would drive into your brain.  
  
He made his choice. He would choose the river.  
  
He grimaced, looking down. They were almost to the Colorado River now, the chopper lurching crazily, the Border patrol's chopper close behind. Frank's ears were filled with the sounds of the whirring blades. This was the last sound he'd hear?  
  
Frank judged that now would be a good time to let go. Hoping he'd calculated it correctly, he loosened his vise-like grip on the nylon rope.  
  
He fell.  
  
He fell towards the Colorado River.  
  
He had to admit the jumpers were, in fact, correct.  
  
It was a transcendental experience. Frank felt elated, the tendrils of his soul were washed with a pleasant feeling. He vaguely heard someone screaming, and wondered who was doing the screaming.  
  
********  
  
Frank started. He opened his eyes. Seeing the ceiling above him, he automatically reached out to the nightstand and flipped on the small lamp there.  
  
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked around his tastefully decorated bedroom. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood up, went into the bathroom and the light turned on automatically. Frank turned on the faucet and stooped over, splashing water on his face. Standing up straight, he looked into the mirror.  
  
Noting the pulled expression on his face, Frank said to his reflection, "Falling dream. It's time for a vacation, soon."  
  
________________ 


End file.
